


dynasty (and if that’s all I’m gonna be, won’t you break the chain with me?)

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Series: Daensa Week 2021 [6]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Canon, Daenerys Targaryen Is Not a Mad Queen, F/F, Minor Asha Greyjoy/Arianne Martell, Minor Brienne of Tarth/Margaery Tyrell, Minor Meera Reed/Margaery Tyrell, Minor Myrcella Baratheon/Arya Stark, Minor Shireen Baratheon/Missandei, POV Daenerys Targaryen, POV Sansa Stark, POV Third Person, Past Sansa Stark/Margaery Tyrell - Freeform, Queen Arianne Martell, Queen Arya Stark, Queen Asha Greyjoy, Queen Daenerys Targaryen, Queen Margaery Tyrell, Queen Myrcella Baratheon, Queen Sansa Stark, Queen Shireen Baratheon, literally the ideal ending as all disagreements between rulers can be solved via sapphic sex, they are all queens here bc i dont listen to what grrm says!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-21
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-15 11:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29558484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Written forDay 6 of Daensa Week 2021 on Tumblr, prompt: Peace.—The road to true peace is a long one.
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Series: Daensa Week 2021 [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165004
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	dynasty (and if that’s all I’m gonna be, won’t you break the chain with me?)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [this AU by @jynnerso on Tumblr.](https://jynnerso.tumblr.com/post/88999264318)
> 
> Title from [Dynasty by](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXekXn25GRs)[ Rina Sawayama.](https://open.spotify.com/track/154gL4Xb5AsreMkcDlVFYS?si=wDW34kO6ReegzimEFt-D3g)(it took ages to find the right title but this one seems to work)
> 
> Still not 100% happy with this, but I’m posting it anyways.

When Daenerys sits the Iron Throne at last, the fires that she set ablaze in Westeros dwindle slowly out. But still the ashes of war cling to the land, mass graves still sit there, silent, bloodied reminders of the price that has been paid for her to sit there. 

Doubt and fear still wrack the people’s minds: will her new power drive Daenerys mad, in time, just like her grandfather? As a woman, will Daenerys lack the strength and willpower to rule wisely and well? These are the questions that Daenerys’s reign must answer, and answer soon. 

Her first move as Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, to the great surprise of many, is to divide the kingdoms, undoing what her ancestors had done so long ago. Dorne, to Queen Arianne Martell; the Reach, to Queen Margaery Tyrell; the Vale and the Riverlands, to be given to Queen Sansa Stark; the Stormlands, to Queen Shireen Baratheon; the Westerlands, to Queen Myrcella Baratheon; the Iron Islands, to Queen Asha Greyjoy; and at last, the North to Queen Arya Stark. And, ruling over them all, sits Daenerys Targaryen upon the Iron Throne. 

To the older members, remnants of Queen Cersei’s council, it is a fool’s gamble, a risk that should never have been taken. Yet Daenerys takes the risk anyways and orders the remaining members of the council away to appoint her seven queens in their places.

“A new way is here,” she tells Maester Pycelle as she sends him from his post. “The era of queens, rather than kings.”

Pycelle pales, for he can feel his dismissal approaching rapidly, and there is nothing left for him to say to defend himself. “Cersei- Cersei tried to do this, and she failed. You shall fail as well!”

Daenerys presses her lips together, repressing laughter. “No, Pycelle. I have done my failing — years of it. And now, it is your turn to feel that failure. It is an unfamiliar feeling, I am sure, but one that you dearly need to feel. You are dismissed from my council, Maester Pycelle.”

He leaves, muttering under his breath about how Daenerys shall surely fail as ruler, but she does not listen. Pycelle is not the sort of man that she would want in her council, anyways, for she has heard reports of his... proclivities, and they strike a fear into Daenerys, a fear more primal than any enemy she has faced on the battlefield. 

She forces the thought of Pycelle from her mind, and writes letters to all seven women, writes until her hand aches from all the work. Then she seals them with her own seal — the forgotten Targaryen seal, which will no longer strike fear into the people’s hearts. Daenerys is determined to be a kind queen rather than anything else. 

* * *

The first to write back is Asha Greyjoy. _You are a fool for thinking this will sway the people of Pyke,_ her letter reads, _but I like the way you think. And besides, Euron is gone, and neither Victarion, nor Aeron, or Theon, much wants to sit the Seastone Chair. So I’ll be your queen, aye, but if this ends up with me in danger, do not say that I cannot say that I told you so._

Daenerys laughs at the words, writes back with _Is it really so foolish of me to declare you queen, when you have wanted it for so long? Besides, none of the other Ironborn have dragons as their allies._

It is not Asha Greyjoy who interests her the most, though. She is Ironborn, through and through: a woman of no great mystery, for her axe and fierce smile tells all that Daenerys needs to know about her. 

Instead, it is the Starks of the North who intrigue her most. The little she has talked with them has given away hardly anything about their otherwise cold and icy personalities, and Dany is left constantly unsatisfied by their mysterious ways, for they remain in their ancestral home of Winterfell still and never come to visit her. 

She finds her thoughts constantly wandering to the Starks during particularly inopportune times, unable to get them off her mind. This time, she is distracted by the promise of a letter during a meeting. 

“My queen, the ravens have brought back letters,” a servant informs her. She is in the midst of a meeting with Grey Worm and some others of the Unsullied, deciding what they shall do now that there are no more wars left to fight, but to her, the queens’ letters take precedence. 

“You are dismissed from this meeting,” Dany smiles at Grey Worm warmly. “We shall resume it tomorrow morn.”

Grey Worm nods at her, and one side of his mouth crooks upwards in an imitation of her smile. Quiet delight stirs in Dany to see that he is learning a way to live outside of fighting and warmongering, no longer following her orders with complete obedience but becoming a real and true person in his own right. It took time, years of it, but at last, all of her efforts are beginning to pay off. “Thank you. I should go... go tend the flower gardens for you.”

Her heart surges with a burst of joy at his words. “No, thank you for your work, Grey Worm.”

“Actually...” Grey Worm pauses on his way out. “I think I should like to be known as something other than Grey Worm, but I am not sure what name I will choose.”

“Whatever you wish to be, know that I will accept you, no matter what.” Dany states, and she means it. The rest of the former Unsullied leave without bowing to Dany — she has told them that they should not bow to her, for all of them are equal now — and Daenerys takes her leave, hurrying through the corridors of the Red Keep towards the expansive rookery, located in the roof of one of its towers. True to the servant’s word, the ravens have returned, carrying more letters tied to their legs. Dany takes each letter from the birds in turn, giving only cursory glances to the seals of each.

The evening is starting to move in, the sky darkening towards nighttime, when Daenerys returns to her chambers. She lights a candle against the darkness so she may read the letters, and settles down at her desk in preparation. 

The first letter is from the Martells, and Arianne is smilingly cunning, a serpent wearing a cloak of joy. In curling handwriting, on parchment scented like spices, she comes through as confident and self-assured. Dany likes her immediately, for she seems to have interesting depths and secrets that are hinted at between the lines of script. 

The next letter bears the Stark seal, and Dany almost tears the parchment in her rush to break the seal. When she opens the letter, it is infuriatingly short, stating only that _Sansa and Arya Stark accept the titles bestowed on them by Queen Daenerys Targaryen with the greatest of joy, and are immensely grateful to her for giving them this wonderful opportunity._ Nothing more, nothing less. She leans back, frowning at the words that she cannot find hidden meanings in, no matter how hard she may try. It seems that everything she tries to get closer to them will never work. 

Dany decides to retire for the night, tugging the silver bells out of her hair with her own hands. Her fingers are not quite as nimble as her handmaidens’ had been, but she is still improving at it, and her tugs are less painful this time, the bells falling out easier. She dresses in a light gown for bed, shucking her queenly clothing in favour of plain cloth and simple string about her neck.

She has found that sleep comes easier, after the war is behind her. No more prophecies haunt her dreams, and the smoke and Quaithe’s golden mask no longer follow her even when asleep. It is only darkness and the relief that sleep brings from the day, now.

* * *

The coronations are a grand affair, for Dany’s entourage must visit each and every one of the Seven Kingdoms. And thus, she has planned them out several months in advance, tracing over the precise route she will take. The security, too, seems a little excessive to her, but the Unsullied are adamant that she be protected every moment of the coronation journey. So she sighs and accepts the offer of several Unsullied bodyguards, although she does insist that there be shifts for guarding her and that they be given breaks.

When the day comes for her to begin the journey, at last, she does not mount Drogon and fly to Dorne, but instead mounts her trusty silver and rides through the streets of King’s Landing surrounded by Unsullied guards. The people follow her, trailing behind in a procession, and Dany must stop at the gates to tell them that she rides to Dorne, and that their own feet alone will likely not be enough on the journey to Dorne. The crowd slowly dissipates, although a few devoted people mount horses to follow her. She smiles at them and promises that they will be well cared for on the journey. 

She would like to set a fast pace to get to Sunspear quickly, but is held back from simply digging her heels into her silver’s sides and allowing the mare to gallop free by her guards. “Speed will only mean more danger, _khaleesi_. You must be slow and steady.” And Dany obeys, even though the slow speed chafes at her Dothraki-spirited parts of her heart. 

They reach Sunspear within five days, and Dany mops at her brow with her hand, the hot Dornish weather and the unrelenting sun on her back making her sweat heavily. Doran wheels his wooden chair to greet her, and kisses Dany’s hand in welcome. She smiles brightly at him before asking after Arianne.

“My Queen,” she hears as Arianne approaches. The princess of Sunspear’s skin seems almost luminous when she steps out into the Dornish sun, and she wears sandsilk of bright orange, a golden bracelet in the shape of a snake twisted around her upper arm. Her eyes are dark and soft, but her lips curl up into a cunning smile as she fits her hand into Dany’s to shake it in greeting. 

“Queen Arianne,” Dany inclines her head to her, comes up blushing. She hopes that it will be almost invisible under her sun-reddened cheeks. “If you would allow me to change from my riding clothes into clothes more proper for this ceremony?” 

“We could not deny you anything. My sweet cousin, show Queen Daenerys to chambers where she may change.” A woman steps out from the shadows, dressed in the garb of a warrior with leather armour over her shoulders and chest and carrying a spear in one hand. She looks to be older than Arianne, with strong features and a common-born face. 

Arianne tuts disapprovingly at her. “Obara, I thought I had told you not to bring the spear.”

The woman — Obara — only shrugs. “If she has her own guard, Arianne, it seems only fair that you should have your own guard, as well.”

“ _Obara_ , you infuriate me no end.” Arianne sighs at her before turning back to Dany. “Do not mind Obara’s low manners. She is a bastard of my late uncle Oberyn, you see.”

Dany nods. “I do not mind her manners. In fact, it is refreshing to have a voice other than a highborn lady’s for once.”

Obara looks at Dany approvingly. “Follow me. I’ll lead you to your chambers.” Without much warning, she starts off through the palace, and Dany has to rush to keep up with her. She waves a hand for one of her guards to bring her formal, queenly dress, hurrying after Obara. Thankfully, it does not take too long before Obara is pausing and opening the door to Dany’s temporary chambers. Dany smiles as Obara holds the door open for her and the Unsullied with her dress. Taking the dress from the Unsullied’s arms, she gives a small thank-you before entering the chambers and starting to disrobe even before she is behind the screen of silk. 

“I’ll guard you,” Obara calls through the closed door, and Dany calls out a thank-you back. She wastes little time stripping her dirtied riding clothes off her body and slipping into the more comfortable and lighter dress of red sandsilk. The material is soft against her skin, the neckline of the dress embellished with golden embroidery that depicts dragons and the shoulders bejewelled with dark-black gems. After she finger-combs her hair and fastens the slim belt around her waist, she observes herself in the mirror quickly before re-emerging with a light smile upon her face. 

Outside, Obara sucks a breath in. “You look absolutely... gorgeous dressed up like that.” 

Trying to keep the blush from her cheeks and failing miserably, Dany replies “My thanks, Obara. Now for the coronation.”

“Indeed,” Obara grunts, pushing off from where she is leaning against the wall and flicking her spear about in her hand. “I’ll lead you to it. My sweet cousin and her father will already be waiting there.”

Dany follows Obara again, this time with nervousness building in her stomach. Already she is going through the many ways in which this could go wrong — an assassin could make an attempt on any of their lives, or, more mundanely, she could trip up on something and fall. She forces the doubts out of her mind as she walks nearer to the ceremony, which is held above the people of Sunspear for all of them to see. Despite the danger that it could put them in, Dany had been insistent on allowing everyone to watch. 

Someone hands her the crown to place on Arianne’s head — a bejewelled golden slip of a crown, laying flat over the wearer’s brow and hanging downwards over their forehead. Daenerys takes a deep breath and readies herself before stepping out into the Dornish sun.

Αpplause surrounds her, rising from the masses gathered below, and Arianne stands proud, facing them, with her father by her side. With her hand in Doran’s, her smile is wide and beautiful.

“Arianne Martell,” Dany intones, tamping her smile down into seriousness, “do you accept the responsibilities that being a queen shall place upon you?”

Arianne turns to her, inclining her head. “I do, yes.”

“Do you swear to serve and protect the people of Dorne until your death?”

“I do.”

“Then let it be known — Arianne Martell, I name you Queen of Dorne.” She steps forwards and places the crown on Arianne’s inclined head, smoothing it down across her brow. Arianne lifts her head, her eyes full of awe, and turns to face her people, delicately adjusting the crown atop her head. 

And they cheer for her, the sun bright above her and the future laid out in that one perfect moment. Dany backs away from the balcony, back into the shade alongside Obara.

“Do you ever get jealous of her?” Dany asks Obara as they stand there, in the darkness compared to Arianne’s radiant light.

“Eh, rarely.” Obara is blunt and to the point. “I accepted my position as a bastard early. Some of my sisters, like Nym, like to pretend that they’re highborn, but there’s no use in that. You’ll never be pure enough for them. And, besides, if I’d been brought up as a lady like her, they’d have forbidden me from learning how to use this.” She flicks her nail against the length of her spear. “So, no, I’m not jealous. Are you?”

Dany frowns. “Of course not. If I was jealous, I wouldn’t have given her the queenship, would I?”

“Fair enough,” shrugs Obara in response.

* * *

Her journey around Westeros is exhausting, yet satisfying at the same time: each place she visits, each queen she crowns, only serves to heighten the sense that the choice she made was the right one. The people embrace their new queens joyously, cheering and shouting each time she sets the crown on each of their heads. And Daenerys is content to watch from the shadows, never quite coming into the light that the other queens take for themselves.

She has crowned four queens before she reaches the new-built castle on the border of the Vale and the Riverlands both, a castle raised exclusively for Queen Sansa to rule from. To reach it, she must deviate a little from the kingsroad, riding through forest and over hills and valleys. Her mare stumbles a little, for she is unused to the different terrain, but they get to the castle without any serious mishaps.

Sansa herself does not greet them: instead, it is a tall, dark-haired woman who calls herself Mya at the portcullis that they meet. “I’m a friend of Lady Sansa,” she says, smiling amicably. “She’s getting ready now. There are quarters prepared for you to ready yourself, as well, and the people are gathered in the courtyard.”

“My thanks,” Dany tells her, dismounting her silver and grimacing as her legs hit solid ground once again. She looks up to her Unsullied guards to take her horse, but instead, Mya intervenes, taking the reins from Dany and looping them around her knuckles.

“Don’t worry, Queen Daenerys. I’ll take your horse to the stables, give it some hay for a while. The same to the rest of your horses,” she adds, already grabbing for another set of reins.

“You are good-hearted, I think,” she notes as she steps past Mya, into the castle, “and kind, as well. Thank you.”

Mya only shrugs. “It’s only the decent thing to do. Don’t give me any special praise for it.”

“Still,” Dany returns, “I think we have all been devoid of decency for a while.” She glances around the castle before her gaze returns to Mya. “By the way, where are the chambers prepared for me?”

“Oh! Only up that tower there — umph,” Mya hands her the dress that Dany will wear for the coronation, cut in the Tully style, long and covered-up. “‘Randa’s there, too. She’ll help.”

Dany breathes a quick thank-you to Mya before she rushes up the steps of the tower, her legs aching from the intense twisting of the staircase around the central pillar. At last she reaches the rooms, and enters with caution, pushing aside the door gently. 

Inside, there is a plump woman sat upon a fine wooden chair, humming some jolly tune to herself. When Dany enters, she jumps up with a delighted expression on her face. “Queen Daenerys?” 

“I am her.” Dany says, confidence sparking in her chest. “And you?” 

“Myranda Royce, though most just call me Randa.” She strides over to Dany with a broad smile on her lips and takes the dress from her arms. “Admirable craftsmanship. The dark fabric of the bodice against the maroon of the dress itself — it’s very becoming, you know.” Myranda eyes Dany up with one eye squinted almost shut. “Now if you’ll undress so I can help you dress for the ceremony?”

Dany nods and starts pulling off her riding clothes. The fabric sticks to her skin as she tries to remove it, and Myranda has to help by forcibly tugging the clothes away until at last Dany is almost completely undressed.

Wasting no time, Myranda immediately slips the dress over her head, helping Dany into the laces of the bodice and ensuring that she does not fall when she steps on the long hem by accident. Once the dress is settled, Myranda tugs the bodice closed fully, tight enough to hold the dress together but not tight enough that Dany feels as if it is strangling her via her waist. 

“How does it fit?” Myranda asks her, tugging at the neckline and the waist. 

“Wonderfully. My thanks,” Dany says, smiling at Myranda brightly. 

“Excellent. There is only one thing left, then...” She waits in anticipation as Myranda busies herself with the drawers of a dressing-table, eventually pulling something out with an _a-ha!_

“Here,” Myranda grins, placing the hairnet over Dany’s head. The jewels set in the hairnet are red-and-black, Targaryen colours, matching to the colours of her gown. Dany glances at herself in the mirror, gasps at the woman she sees there. Reaching a hand up behind her head, she adjusts the hairnet until it sits perfectly in place. 

“To the coronation,” declares Dany.

* * *

“Sansa Stark, I name you Queen of the Vale and the Riverlands,” Daenerys says, smiling down at her as she takes the silvery crown from Myranda’s cupped hands, the arch of the crown shaped in such a way so that it appears to be winged, and sets it atop Sansa’s rich auburn hair. The crown feels light as air atop her head, and Sansa feels almost like she has ascended to heaven when she stares up into Queen Daenerys’s eyes, unable to keep the smile from her face. 

“Face your people,” Daenerys tells Sansa in a soft voice, her hand on Sansa’s shoulder, reassuring her. And Sansa turns away from Daenerys and towards the people of the Riverlands and Vale — _her_ people. Her breath is caught in her throat as she waits for their reaction, afraid that they will turn out to despise her, fling rotten words back at her.

No such thing happens; instead, they cheer, and their eyes are full of bright joy. A smile breaks out over her face at the genuine happiness of the people below her, spreading from them to her. Sansa closes her eyes and allows herself to be caught up in the exhilaration of the moment, letting the joy and love wash over her.

“You are queen,” she hears Daenerys whisper, and allows herself to believe it: _she is queen._

Afterwards, with Sansa still euphoric off the joy of her coronation, still unbelieving, she talks with Daenerys awhile before she leaves for Winterfell. The Targaryen queen is surprisingly warm to Sansa, her smile easy to bring out. They do not discuss politics, far from it — instead Daenerys tells Sansa how much she misses riding on the back of her dragons, and Sansa tells a story from her childhood about the crypts beneath Winterfell. It had felt too tragic to tell, before this — for half the people in the tale had since died, and another exiled beyond the Wall — but Daenerys’s company encourages her, and her voice does not shake overmuch during it. 

As Daenerys gets up to leave with her entourage of guards, she pauses and turns back to Sansa. “I was wondering... after this journey is over, would you visit me in King’s Landing?” 

The offer surprises Sansa, but she nods eagerly, all the same. “I would dearly enjoy that, Daenerys.” Somewhere in their conversation, she had started to drop the _queen_ and instead say only _Daenerys._

“Then I shall write you when the occasion comes around, and dearly look forwards to it.” Daenerys clasps Sansa’s hand in hers and smiles down at her gracefully. “While we wait for that day, however, I wish you the best of luck with your queenship.”

“The same to you,” Sansa tells her. “Goodbye, Daenerys.” She squeezes Daenerys’s hand tightly, knowing that she must leave soon. 

“Goodbye, Sansa.” Daenerys does not look back at her as she exits the castle, but Sansa’s eyes remain fixed upon her even as she goes. 

* * *

She writes to all the other queens, and they write to her, but it is always the letters from Daenerys Targaryen that she treasures the most. The Targaryen queen’s hand is elegant, if a little stiff, and her letters are always about politics rather than anything else. Trade deals that must be made, finances to be loaned. It drives her a little mad, the fact that she can never quite learn this queen.

Arya’s letters are full of scribbly handwriting and, occasionally, mud-stains, but her hand is improving substantially, even if she complains about how much it hurts her hand. She has chosen Meera Reed as her Hand of the Queen — although Sansa does not know Meera personally, Bran has spoken of her and her dead greenseer brother often. And Meera, while seemingly a little rough around the edges and too unladylike for Sansa’s tastes, does seem to suit with her half-wild sister’s ways.

For her own Hand, Sansa has chosen Myranda Royce, who accepted the honour with a wide smile and kissed Sansa’s hand extravagantly afterwards, making her blush rose-pink. Myranda is wiser in the ways of the world than Sansa, and has served her well so far in avoiding marriage offers and standing up to the older lords of the Vale and the Riverlands, most of whom are bitter about a woman ruling in place of a man. In truth, she would like each and every lord to be replaced by bastard-girls, but Myranda laughs at the idea and counsels her against it. 

And so Sansa lives and rules, although at times she feels more like she is merely existing between day to day. The friendship that Mya and Myranda offer helps her, but for the most part Sansa finds herself living for the dreams and memories that continue appearing to her unbidden. 

It is only a certain letter from Daenerys that snaps her away from her almost trancelike state, makes her remember their conversation that sparked something new in her. _There is now a set date for your visit to King’s Landing. I have decided to take the liberty of inviting all six of the other queens of Westeros, in the hope that we may converse and enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company. The visit shall last for exactly a month before we all depart back to our respective kingdoms._

Sansa finds a smile growing on her face. “Look, ‘Randa!” She rushes over to the other woman and points at the paragraph in Daenerys’s neat handwriting that details the plans for her visit. “In several weeks, I am to be headed to King’s Landing to meet with Daenerys and my sister.”

Myranda raises a brow, only mild intrigue present on her face. “And so? Am I to join you for what sounds like a dreary month of ladies laying around and never truly discussing the important issues?” She frowns. “You may go, of course, but I think I shall remain and entertain a few of my suitors. I am just finally having lords interested in me again, and all because you made me your Hand of the Queen. Which I am very grateful for, naturally!” 

Her smile begins to droop at the edges. “So you shall not go to King’s Landing with me?”

“Oh, you would not enjoy me there, anyways. Besides, you’re brave. You’ll manage.”

“Wait,” Sansa frowns. “‘Randa, do you truly believe that I’m brave?”

“What? Of course I believe you’re brave. Better than that, I _know_ that you’re brave. It’s not everyone who has the guts to become a queen, nor a good queen. And even if you don’t know it yourself, you _are_ brave.”

She embraces Myranda then, wraps her arms about her shoulders and squeezes tight. Perhaps Myranda doesn’t understand why, but she lets Sansa hug her all the same until she gruffly shoves Sansa away with a smile on her face, regardless.

* * *

In the end, Sansa rides for King’s Landing alone, with Mya and Myranda waving her off from just outside the portcullis. Her hair is long and proud, curling back over her shoulders and twisting in the wind that her horse whips up as she rides, the feeling of freedom — _at last_ — glorious to her. She rides towards the kingsroad, but stays a little off the path, on Mya’s insistence and warnings of danger for those who ride on the main road. To fight off any attackers, Mya had given her a dagger, which Sansa keeps buckled against her thigh, although she doubts that she would be much use with it in a fight. 

Nobody attacks her, though, as she rides steadily south, and Sansa stops each night at inns along the kingsroad. The inns are slowly starting to recover and rebuild from the war — as is everyone — and she makes sure to give the innkeepers an extra golden dragon to assist them in the process. She knows, on a far larger scale, how difficult is is, and knows, as well, how far a dragon goes in helping the poorer people of Westeros.

The road starts widening and the forest starts thinning the more south she gets, and Sansa strays closer to the kingsroad as the forest cover grows lighter, until eventually the forest disappears and she has no choice but to join the people on the kingsroad as they trail both north and south. She falls in with a group of silk merchants headed for King’s Landing to peddle their wares. Although Sansa does not tell them that she is a noble lady, she thinks that they know anyways. 

When they reach King’s Landing, Sansa peels off from them with few goodbyes to ride directly for the Red Keep, her pace slowed down by the amount of traffic in the streets of the city. Eventually, she comes to the gates of the Red Keep, which are — _opened._ With nobody standing guard over the gates, nobody at all. 

It is so different from Cersei’s paranoia and her constant process of locking herself away into some illusion of safety that it shocks Sansa. She dismounts, her eyes wide, wondering at the many changes that Daenerys has brought to the city now that it is finally free of Lannister control. 

Leading her horse into the Red Keep, a servant appears at her side to take her horse off her hands, and Sansa smiles gratefully at them, pressing a golden dragon into their palm as a thank-you. She continues walking through the Red Keep, her eyes half-fixed on the sky rather than on the ground. Hence why she ends up running straight into a pale-haired woman in knightly dress — tunic and breeches with dark riding boots.

“Sorry,” Sansa mutters, her cheeks flushing crimson at her mistake. She tries to back away and find somewhere else to go, looking around awkwardly. 

“It was my mistake, my lady,” the woman says, her own cheeks going pink as well.

“Brienne, dear?” A soft voice calls from the chambers that the woman seems to be guarding, and Sansa recognises it instantly, even though it has been some time since she last heard it. “Do we have a visitor?”

“Indeed,” Sansa returns. “Sansa Stark.”

Brienne frowns. “Do you know Lady Margaery well, Lady Sansa?” 

She shrugs. “She was a... _friend_ to me during my time in King’s Landing before. A valuable friend. I have not seen her for several years now, though.” 

“Ah, _Sansa_. Margaery has talked of you.” Brienne finally seems to recognise her name. “Come, I shall take you to Lady Margaery, since you know her from before.” She offers her arm, and Sansa takes it gladly. 

Brienne leads her into Margaery’s chambers, and Sansa looks around, fascinated by the changes that have come over Margaery since she had last seen her. None of the flowers are fresh any more: they are all brown and some are blackened at the edges, dead leaves dusting the floor. And when she comes upon her, lounging upon a chaise, Margaery dresses differently: her clothes are more somber, a Seven-Pointed Star hung about her neck in an expression of piety. 

Yet Margaery’s smile, when she looks up to see Sansa standing there, is still the same. 

“Sansa!” Margaery lithely stands up and goes to her side, embracing her in soft arms. “I have missed you so, these past few years.”

Sansa frowns and points at the Seven-Pointed Star around Margaery’s neck. In all the time she had known her, she had never believed Margaery to be a particularly devout believer of the Faith, yet now she wears a symbol of them openly. “Why the necklace?”

Margaery tugs at the chain, jerking the Seven-Pointed Star about. “I wear it so that the High Septon doesn’t believe me to be unholy and an agent of evil working to harm him. It’s nothing, Sansa. Truly.” 

She looks up at Brienne, who is taller than both Sansa and Margaery easily, and loops Brienne’s arm around her shoulder. Brienne makes a soft sound and pulls Margaery closer, Margaery’s arm around closing Brienne’s waist. 

Jealousy should be sparking angrily, but instead, Sansa just feels a kind of emptiness where she knows it should be. In all her years, she had never thought that she would love anyone as passionately as she loved Margaery. Yet now, all that love she had held for Margaery has disappeared while she was unaware, leaving her devoid of any love towards her. 

“I’m sorry,” Sansa says, starting to duck out, “but I find myself quite exhausted from my journey here. I should like to rest awhile, I think.”

There is only vague disappointment from Margaery, quickly dispelled by a smile that lacks the kindness she had formerly been imbued with. “Of course. A servant will show you to your quarters, if you call for one.”

“Thank you,” Sansa gets the words out hurriedly, almost rushing out of Margaery’s quarters in her haste to get away. The corridors are empty outside, and she strolls through them for a while, alone, with only the walls that had once trapped her for company. 

When she comes upon the throne room, she freezes at the doorway, memories of Joffrey and his threats returning in a thick and steady stream to her. She forces herself to peer around the door, expecting that Joffrey will be there, with his false Kingsguard and the crossbow pointed at her face, fear weighing her down. 

The throne room is empty, and Sansa steps nervously into it, each movement sluggish as she slowly forces herself to look and realise that Joffrey is no longer there. Eventually, she is standing next to the Iron Throne itself, gazing at the melted metal of the swords, fused together to create an unholy throne.

All the blood spilled in the war, and _this_ is what so many had fought and died for? _This_ is why armies had fought and died? _This_ is why her father had died, her mother had died, her brother had died — 

“I want to destroy it. One day.” Sansa spins from her place by the throne to see Daenerys standing there, her hands clasped together. Slowly, she walks through the throne room towards Sansa, each pace measured until she finally draws near to Sansa. “So that there will never be a war for it again. I want _peace_ , Sansa, more than anything else.” 

“Everything you just said — ” Sansa pauses to collect her thoughts. “I want what you want, as well.”

“That makes the two of us.” Daenerys’s smile feels forced as she offers Sansa her arm. “Come, Sansa. This room is full of unhappy spirits and bloodshed. Walk with me awhile instead.” 

* * *

There is little grand ceremony when her sister comes to King’s Landing. Arya simply walks into Sansa’s chambers with a grin on her face, making Sansa almost scream in joy and surprise, and she runs over to her sister to sweep her up in a hug which lasts for far longer than it should. 

“Arya,” Sansa smiles at her. “You’re here.”

“Pfft, I couldn’t pass up the chance to irritate my sister,” Arya shrugs, but her eyes, too, are glassy with tears that have yet to be shed. “Gods, I missed you, so badly.”

“I missed you too,” Sansa admits. “And now look at you — grown up at last, and Queen of the North.”

“They’d be proud of me, wouldn’t they?” Arya asks. “Ned and Cat and Robb. I know I was never the best to Cat when we were younger, but gods, I hope she doesn’t hate me for it — ”

“They would be so proud of you,” Sansa whispers to her, hugging Arya again. “Even Cat.”

* * *

Margaery has taken to Meera Reed, who came along with Arya for her visit, quicker than she had taken to Sansa when she first met her, but Sansa still cannot find it in her heart to be jealous as she watches them together. Her love for Margaery, she is beginning to realise, was fleeting, a summer love that could not survive the winter and fled when the snows came. It is a strange realisation, to her, for she had thought that she would love Margaery all her life, at times during her youth. Yet now she is older, and all that remains of the love that once consumed her wholly is a friendly affection. 

She looks up from where Margaery is calling Brienne to join her and Meera on a ride to see Queen Daenerys at her arm, her expression unreadable as her gaze flicks downwards. 

“My Queen,” Sansa says, turning away from the green below and dipping into a graceful curtsy before Daenerys. Glancing up, she sees a barely concealed smile grace Daenerys’s face.

“There is no need for you to curtsy each and every time you encounter me, Queen Sansa,” Daenerys notes, “otherwise I fear your knees may never recover after your visit to King’s Landing.” 

She finds a smile appearing on her face. “Wait, did you just make a _joke_?”

Daenerys raises a pale-white brow at her, a smile quirking up the corner of her mouth. “Indeed I did, Lady Sansa. You may wish to get used to me having another side than merely the Queen on the Iron Throne.” With that said, she extends an arm for Sansa to take, violet eyes brimming with amusement.

Sliding her arm into Daenerys’s, Sansa tries to feel at ease as Daenerys leads her onwards through the Red Keep. The sunlight that the balcony had provided just a moment ago disappears as they walk through one of the Red Keep’s numerous corridors. 

Once, Sansa had hated this place dearly: it had been a glorified prison, Cersei turning the key on the door to lock her away. And now, Sansa must try and reconcile the tyrant-like rulers of the past with the new ruler, a Targaryen who is not mad like those before. This is a new start, a new world. The old ways have all been burned away to make this possible. 

“What are you thinking of, Lady Sansa?” Daenerys’s voice is soft and gentle, her hand running along Sansa’s sleeve soothingly. “I hope that it is not too unhappy. All that should be gone, forgotten.”

“Yet I cannot forget,” admits Sansa. “I cannot gaze at even the very walls of this place without thinking of Joffrey’s anger, or the threats that Sandor made to me, nor Cersei’s malevolent emerald eyes.” 

Daenerys goes silent as they continue walking, and she takes Sansa by surprise when she eventually speaks again. “I would not know of what terrible things happened to you here, but I hope that I may help you to move past them. You and I are both haunted by our own demons, it seems. And although they are long dead, they are never dead in your memories, are they?”

The acute pain in Daenerys’s voice startles Sansa a little, for she had previously assumed that her ascent to the Iron Throne had been easy — yet it seems that it was not, for her tone is exactly like Sansa’s when she speaks of what had happened in her past. Bitter, and biting. Sharp, too, but only harmful towards the one who says it. 

“Indeed, you are... correct,” Sansa replies, a note of surprise in her voice. There are no more words said on this subject except once, when the time comes for them to separate.

Then, Daenerys says, slowly and haltingly, “If you wish to live somewhere other than the Red Keep during your stay here, I shall not mind in the slightest. You need only ask anything of me that you need, and I shall provide it.” 

“My thanks,” Sansa replies, disliking the formality between them but not knowing what to do about it. “Perhaps you have been told this one too many times, Queen Daenerys, but you are kind — and beautiful, as well.”

Daenerys’s smile is lovely and light, and does not appear forced at all. “Indeed, that compliment has been given many times. Yet I do not think I will tire of hearing it, not if it is from your lips. And to you, my name is Dany, not Queen Daenerys — we are both queens, are we not?” 

“Why, yes... _Dany_... we are both queens.” The name is awkward on her tongue initially, yet Sansa finds that she enjoys the feel of it as she thinks over it after she’s said it. 

Sansa watches Daenerys leave, her lips curling upwards unthinkingly. Arya strides up to her on feet quiet as a cat, and Sansa doesn’t notice her until Arya draws her attention by nudging her with an elbow. “What’s all this about?”

“Nothing,” Sansa says, although her cheeks are pink from blushing and give her away to Arya’s interested gaze.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Arya replies knowingly when she notices Daenerys, clearly heading away from Sansa. “I get it, now.”

She glares at Arya, irritated. “Whatever you think it is, you are _wrong_.” 

“I’ve always been right, eventually,” Arya grins. 

* * *

By rights, Sansa has no reason to be so scandalised when she comes upon Arya kissing Myrcella in the gardens, the queens of the North and the Westerlands’s lips appearing to almost be sealed together. She should have expected it, most likely, for Arya had been spending far too much time with Myrcella than was typical for her, but she is still shocked. 

“ _Arya!_ ” She shrieks, clutching a hand over her mouth. The two of them break apart, and Arya’s sigh is visible even if Sansa cannot hear it, exasperated by Sansa’s dramatics. 

“What?” Arya shouts back, trudging out of the gardens to come stand before Sansa. Myrcella follows behind, blushing hotly. Both their lips are reddened from kissing.

“Why are you kissing Myrcella Baratheon?”

Arya shrugs the question off. “Why not?”

“Because — ” Sansa struggles to come up with a reason and eventually gives up trying. “Oh, gods. But, either of you — if you break the other’s heart, you had better be prepared to apologise for it! Arya, I am not willing to deal with a heartbroken version of you, and if you are responsible for making Myrcella upset — ”

Myrcella smiles reassuringly. “Don’t you worry, Sansa. I do not think either of us will break the other’s heart any time soon.”

“No,” Arya agrees triumphantly. “Now, Sansa, will you leave me be?”

Sansa sighs, exhausted down by the two of them. “Fine, but I still stand by my words.”

After Sansa leaves, Myrcella glances after her, worried. “That’s your sister, Arya. Surely you don’t want to worry her?” 

“She’s just a bit overprotective,” Arya flicks her wrist after her. “Same as my mother was. You don’t need to mind about that. In time, she’ll come around, just you watch. Now — I believe we were mid-way through doing _this_?” She presses her lips to Myrcella’s, and all thoughts of Sansa disappear from Myrcella’s head. 

* * *

“Who do you love?” Sansa asks Daenerys, unthinkingly. The sunlight is streaming in through the stained-glass window, and Daenerys is laughing and trading japes with her, both of them laid out on chaises. 

“Oh,” Daenerys says, and Sansa can tell that the conversation is shifting from lighthearted to more serious. “Well, um...” 

“I mean, just because everyone else here seems to have someone,” she interrupts Daenerys to explain. “Asha and Arianne, Myrcella and Arya, Shireen and Missandei... Margaery even has two for herself, both my sister’s Hand and the captain of her Queensguard.” 

Daenerys damn near chokes upon the lemon cake she is nibbling upon, coughing at length before she swallows and speaks. “ _Missandei_? I kind of knew about all the others — R’hllor knows, Asha and Arianne are certainly not subtle with their flirting — but _Missandei_? This is, ah, a new development for me.”

“Oh, yes.” Sansa smiles gaily at her. “I would not have expected it, either, but it is plain to see that Shireen favours Missandei’s company above all others.”

Opposite her, Daenerys shakes her head with a befuddled expression upon her face. “I do not believe it, Sansa. You must show me proof of it.” Despite the air of command in her tone, she is smiling, as she always seems to be smiling around Sansa. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sansa is aware that Daenerys is avoiding the question, but it takes second place to the matter of Shireen and Missandei.

“If you wish.” She rises from the chaise to lead Daenerys to the library, where Shireen and Missandei may usually be found. At first, Missandei was teaching Shireen her native tongue, Naathi, before branching out into other languages of the Free Cities. Next, Shireen could be seen to give Missandei a kiss on the cheek after their teaching sessions, before they started spending time with each other outside of lessons. Shireen walked with Missandei around the city, introducing her to various facets of Westerosi culture, and the little scribe had listened eagerly, fascinated. 

Sansa leans against the door to allow Daenerys to glance over her shoulder and catch a glimpse of the two working together. As Missandei draws shapes across the page, Shireen copies her, and after she completes a sheet, Missandei leans in to plant a small kiss upon Shireen’s greyscale-marred cheek. This raises a pale brow from Daenerys, and Sansa counts it as a success. 

“Do you see, then? Shireen and Missandei have found each other.”

“So they have.” Dany frowns, her eyes turning dark and brooding. “So they have.”

Curious, yet unwilling to set off any rage that may be building in Daenerys, Sansa moves closer to her, hoping that she can learn why Daenerys’s mood changed so. “Indeed?”

Daenerys glances down to the ground, then up again, violet gaze meeting Sansa’s eyes. “Oh, you need not worry. I was only thinking... how lonely I am. It is a lonely and loveless place, a throne. Even with friends around you. Even with someone you love by your side.” She is so deep in thought that she likely does not notice the slip of her tongue, _someone you love_.

She does not dare hope that she could be the _someone_ that Daenerys had talked about. 

“It is that, I agree.”

A soft sigh from Daenerys. “I am sorry, Sansa. I forgot myself. Would you leave me be, at least for a while?”

“Of course.” Sansa leaves, closing the door gently behind her.

* * *

She did not expect her leaving to be quite as emotional as it was, instead believing that it would simply be a matter of saying her goodbyes before mounting her horse and riding back to her castle, as she had when she rode down to King’s Landing. But life always has a way of throwing her for a loop, it seems. 

Asha kisses Arianne a firm goodbye, and promises to sail down to Dorne frequently. Sansa finds herself utterly unsurprised by the affection the two of them show, for they share boldness and strength of spirit between the two of them, a fortuitous combination. She does not mind that neither of them bid any of the other queens more than a cursory goodbye: they are too wrapped up in their fiery, boldly sunshine love to even notice the rest of them. 

Missandei approaches Daenerys with her head bowed when it comes for Shireen’s time to bid King’s Landing goodbye. “I should like to return to the stormy lands with Shireen. She is... dear to me, and I may help her rule wisely and well.”

Daenerys’s smile is sad, but she was clearly expecting this: perhaps it was long overdue. “Of course I will let you go, Missandei.” Although her tone is light, there is something of genuine, heavy melancholy in it. “I only ask that you write to me, telling me of your new life. I would hear all that you have to say to me.”

Obediently, Missandei nods. “I shall write to you, naturally. I wish for you to know everything that happens to me.”

Daenerys slips down from her seat on the Iron Throne and walks towards Missandei, wrapping her up in a tight embrace. “I wish only the best for you, Missandei. You have been faithful all these years, and I do not know how I may reward you.”

“This is more than I ever believed I would have, _khaleesi_ ,” Missandei’s smile speaks of tragedy and hope. “You have saved me from slavery, and brought me to my dear Shireen, and for that I give you eternal thanks.” 

A tear drips down Daenerys’s cheek as she watches Missandei turn her back and leave, perhaps forever. Sansa does not know the exact manner of the friendship between Daenerys and Missandei, but she understands the pain of losing a loved one, perhaps deeper than she understands herself, and this is Daenerys losing a loved one. 

Sansa steps forwards, holding a hand out for Daenerys to take. And after a moment, Daenerys does, sliding her hand into Sansa’s. 

“Goodbye,” she whispers. “Write to me?”

“Of course,” Daenerys replies. “I would do nothing less.” 

She smiles, one last smile before she has to leave, and squeezes Daenerys’s hand. “It won’t hurt so badly, with time, Daenerys.”

“Dany.” A ghost of a smile flutters to life upon her face. “I am Dany, to you.”

“Goodbye, Daenerys.” Sansa turns her back to leave, mournful despite there not being any deaths to grieve for. She trudges back to her horse as the rain starts to pour down on King’s Landing, slides into the saddle before it has a chance to become heavily wet and puts her heels into her horse, letting its gentle sway carry her from Daenerys back to — her _home_. 

* * *

It is only when she returns to her seat over the Vale and the Riverlands that Sansa realises exactly how lonely her life there is. Naturally, she has the company of her advisers, but she senses that they do not quite like her so much as the rest of the queens had — perhaps it is the fact that the great majority are men, appointments left over from Petyr Baelish’s time as Regent of the Vale of Arryn, and still do not believe in a woman’s ability to rule well. And she has the company of her old friends, Mya Stone and Myranda Royce, though Jeyne Poole has chosen to return north to build a new life with a common woman — Sansa vaguely remembers her name to be _Gilly —_ but neither of them understand the pressure that being a Queen places upon her. Only the other queens understand. 

Sansa finds herself writing to Daenerys perhaps more frequently than she should be, and it is not only political matters that they discuss. In their letters, Daenerys talks of the many suitors lining up at her door, which sparks a poisonous feeling in Sansa’s stomach, and of the mundane challenges she faces. More than once, Sansa finds herself laughing almost madly at a story from Daenerys about her dragons. Drogon, in particular, she learns, has a problem with the local farmers’s sheep, and Daenerys has had several complaints from farmers. _It’s not like they can complain to the dragon,_ Daenerys writes wryly, and Sansa giggles like the girl she used to be.

Other than her letters and conversations with Myranda and Mya, however, there is little for her to do. Sansa takes up embroidery again, starting to work at a dress for Myranda. Initially, she finds that the needle stabs at her fingers and slips frequently, jabbing awkwardly. With time — something that she has an excess of, now — and practice, however, she starts to grow better at it. Myranda compliments her on her work, when she passes by: “I do not have nearly enough patience for such a thing as that. And when it is done, I shall wear it with pride.” Sansa blushes pink and waves Myranda away, embarrassed, but her soul glows at her words. 

She whiles away her days with other activities, as well. Mya stubbornly insists that Sansa helps her care for the mules, and Sansa does, walking them through snowed-over grass that always ends with her boots being soaked. She grows fonder of Mya through this, finding a real and wonderful person beneath all the raw stubbornness and guarded personality. The mules take to her company quickly, and soon she finds herself taking time away from her responsibilities as Queen to feed them sugar cubes and carrots. Mya even jokes that the mules are closer to Sansa than to her. 

And, somewhere within the days as they pass, somewhere in the clasp of Mya’s hand in hers, somewhere in Myranda’s ready smile, Sansa begins to heal. She does not notice it at first, buried deeply within her soul as it is, yet slowly it starts to come to the surface. It’s in the blush over Sansa’s cheeks as Myranda leans in to kiss her upon the cheek, the dress that Sansa has so painstakingly made for her gathered in her arms. It’s in the soft touch of Mya’s hand over hers, in the question that Mya’s glance asks, and the answer that Sansa gives. _Yes._

Mya’s lips against hers are soft, devoid of any lust. She kisses back, lightly, feeling joy flood her. As Mya’s gentle fingers trail through her hair, not tangling, or tugging, just threading through, Sansa knows that she is not broken. She never was, although she had believed herself to be. And those who had tried to break her are dead now, and Sansa still lives. 

“Thank you,” Sansa murmurs against Mya’s lips once their kiss is broken. Mya smiles against her lips, and no more words are said after that. 

They do not — make love, for Sansa knows that she could not stomach it. Not after her marriage to Tyrion, or what Petyr had tried to do to her. But kissing Mya? That, she can manage — more than manage, in fact, for Myranda comments teasingly on Sansa’s reddened lips when they return. 

“Found yourself a paramour, Lady Sansa?” Myranda pokes her in the arm and grins. Sansa flushes red in response. 

“Not a paramour, no.” Her eyes catch Mya’s own blue ones and she knows that she must choose her next words carefully. “Just... someone that I deeply like.” 

“Hmm,” declares Myranda, but she does not push the subject any further.

In truth, Sansa does not love Mya, not like she had loved Margaery, once. Mya is a good friend, and a kind spirit, but Sansa does not think that she could spend the rest of her life in her company. She is waiting for another love to come along, a stronger one. 

Memories of violet eyes, pale-white hair, rosebud-pink lips curled up into a smile, flood her mind, but Sansa resolutely ignores them as they appear. She should find herself a husband instead, some lord of the Riverlands or the Vale, yet whenever she considers the candidates, she always finds reasons to discount them. One may be too ugly, another too old, another’s lands too poor for the marriage to be beneficial.

And so, Sansa forbids herself to love, pretending that she loves not, though her heart knows different. Her heart longs for violet eyes and the thrill of power intrinsic to dragons and Targaryens.

* * *

Daenerys is the first to suggest that she visit Sansa in her seat, a footnote on the end of a far more important letter regarding crop supplies, yet to Sansa the idea takes precedence to ruling. The great majority of the letter she writes in return is occupied with the idea of Daenerys visiting rather than crop supplies, and Daenerys writes back with _you really want me to visit you that much?_

 _Yes,_ Sansa’s reply reads, simply.

_All right. I have made the necessary arrangements for a trip of two weeks to your castle. If you wish for it so badly, then it will be yours. This is my promise to you from here on._

* * *

Her heart is thundering in her chest as she watches the dragons in the sky, powerful wings seeming to beat away even the rains that have kept the land in a perpetual state of snowmelt. A little bit of fear trembles down her spine, but it thrills her to be scared, for she loves the feeling of Daenerys’s power, knowing that it will protect and help her. 

Daenerys lands with a great swoop downwards, and Sansa gasps as she watches her, fascinated. Myranda pokes her in the arm to stop her staring, and encourages her to hurry to meet Daenerys. Gratefully, Sansa smiles at her and rushes down the twisting stairs of the tower, down, down, down, growing closer to her with each step. She feels a smile breaking out over her face as she steps out of the castle, the portcullis always open behind her now, for there is no need to close it against enemies. And there she is, glorious even though the rain has soaked her pale-white hair into a bedraggled state and her clothes stick to her skin. 

“Sansa,” Daenerys breathes before she’s swept up in a hug, the cold skin of her cheek against Sansa’s warm furs. There is no awkwardness in the hug, the two embracing as if they are old friends. She closes her eyes, relaxing into the hug.

“I have missed you dearly.” Sansa’s grin is indefatigable.

“Well, now I am here, so you can stop missing me.” Their talk is devoid of any polite honourifics, for in each other’s company they do not need to call each other queen or lady, but instead sit as equals.

“Yes, since you first wrote to tell me of your visit, I have found my situation here much improved.” Sansa breaks the hug and offers her arm to Daenerys, who takes it. Together, they return to the castle, and Sansa leads Daenerys to her chambers. Myranda grins wickedly as they pass, and Sansa blushes in return, understanding the meaning behind Myranda’s smile. “It’s not like that,” she hisses to her out of the corner of her mouth, but Myranda clearly doesn’t believe her, if her giggle is any sign.

* * *

With Daenerys by her side, her usually boring life starts to feel different. Each day, she hurries to slide out of the covers and meet Daenerys to break her fast with her in the Great Hall, before walking Daenerys through different facets of her life in the Vale. Dany learns of Sansa’s gift for embroidery, walks with her and Mya while they tend to the mules, and she assists in the various council meetings. Naturally, the lords prove far more willing to accept a woman as queen when there is the threat of dragonfire over their heads. 

In return, Daenerys introduces Sansa to her three dragons. “The Targaryen sigil of the dragon has three heads, one for Aegon and his two wives. Three dragons, three heads, three people. At least, perhaps that is what it’s supposed to mean to me. I would not care, either way. They serve their purpose, and they are my children.” She says resolutely.

The green-and-bronze dragon butts its nose towards Sansa, and she shrieks while Dany laughs and scolds it. “No, _bad!_ Don’t scare Sansa. She is... a friend. Get that? A _friend_.” 

It is now Sansa’s turn to laugh, now that the intimidation of being next to a dragon has worn off. She slides a hand down the dragon’s nose, stroking gently. “If they are your children, did you name them?”

“What? Oh, naturally. This one is Rhaegal, after my brother.” Dany’s gaze shifts from where she’s looking at Sansa, up to her dragon. “I know that perhaps he wasn’t perfect like I believed in my youth, but I still look up to him, for I have no choice. He was the dragon before me, and now I am the last dragon. The Targaryen dynasty will end with me.”

“It seems tragic that you must carry the weight of all your ancestors with you,” Sansa notes, unthinkingly. “All the pressure that it puts on you, doesn’t it grow hard to carry?”

Dany shrugs. “I have carried it my whole life, and it is only when I die that I shall finally be free of it. Carrying it grows easy, in time and with practice.”

* * *

Dany’s face is partially lit in the candlelight, her skin seeming to glow golden, and Sansa feels her heart ache, yearning for this woman opposite her. This glorious, powerful, kind woman, this woman who Sansa would gladly pray to, devote the rest of her life to. She picks at the stitches, tugging and pulling until the error finally comes undone. 

She is almost too much for Sansa to handle, in her entirety. Her love too strong, Daenerys too powerful. Sansa does not want to lose this chance like she has lost the rest of them, but the prospect of loving Daenerys is almost unthinkable. 

“Is there a mistake?” Daenerys asks, noticing Sansa’s gaze stuck upon her. 

“No, none at all,” Sansa replies, her eyes dropping back down to the embroidery in her lap. She looks at the stitching, at the form slowly taking place via her needle and thread. Black thread pulled taut over plain white cloth, beady red eyes of tight thread. Daenerys’s own symbol, staring back up at her. 

Everywhere she looks, all she can see is Daenerys. She is bigger and brighter than the sky, inescapable. 

“Daenerys.” Sansa dares to say, her voice low and breathy. Daenerys turns to her, one pale brow raised, and Sansa feels love overwhelming her soul. She decides that she shall take this opportunity, before it, too, falls out of her reach. 

“I love you,” she whispers, the truth finally slipping out from in between her parted lips. And now it is laid out there, in the open, vulnerable.

“As do I,” Daenerys replies, her own voice quavering and nervous. Her embroidery falls from her hands, landing somewhere upon the floor, but she is no longer worried about it. 

“Then kiss me,” Sansa says, her own embroidery forgotten as she leans closer to Daenerys’s lips — the destination for all of these years, even though she was never aware of it. 

Daenerys’s breath slides between her lips, and they are close enough that she can feel the exhale, can feel the gentle intake of breath before, at long last, the thing that she has been waiting for all these years — Daenerys kisses her. 

Sansa kisses back, as gentle as Daenerys’s own kiss, and neither of them let each other go for a long time after that. Even when the dawn finally comes, their hands are still clasped together. 

* * *

“I do not like that you must leave me,” Sansa tells Dany as she climbs back onto her dragon, concern across her brow as Dany’s grip tightens on the spines on Drogon’s back. “And I do not like you flying without a saddle.” 

Dany leans down from her place on Drogon’s neck towards Sansa, not loosening her hands from the spines that she’s holding onto. “I don’t like that I have to leave, either. But I’ll be returning to you in time, don’t you worry.” She dips her head down dangerously low to press her lips to the crown of Sansa’s head. “And I shall be fine, Sansa, you worrier.” Dany adds sternly. “I have flown Drogon plenty of times before, _actually_.”

“Alright, alright,” Sansa laughs, lifting her hand upwards to allow Dany to brush a light kiss over her knuckles. “Until next time, Dany.” 

“Until next time,” Daenerys smiles, before digging her heels into Drogon’s sides and taking flight. Sansa feels a rush of air over her, Drogon’s ascent stirring up a phantom wind that rustles her hair upwards for only a moment. Soon, Dany and Drogon are growing rapidly smaller, until they disappear into the clouds, already memories. 

Mya steps out from the cover of the portcullis and walks to stand next to Sansa, watching alongside her as the rains start to pour down, making puddles in the hollows and inconsistencies of the cobblestones. 

“Are you bitter?” Sansa asks her, already worrying that Mya’s answer will be a _yes_.

She just shrugs. “Perhaps I was bitter, a while ago, but any bitterness that I had is all gone now. I see you with her, and I know that she makes you happier than I ever could. Besides, there’s a very pretty farmer’s daughter that I’ve been admiring for a bit. So, no, I’m not bitter. Not at all — because you are joyous, and I’m alright.”

Sansa latches onto Mya’s words gratefully, a conspiratorial grin (much like one Myranda would give her) on her face. “What are you waiting for, Mya? She’s out there, waiting for you, and you’ve wasted enough time already. Go,” she says, gently nudging Mya.

“I think — I will,” Mya replies, a distant smile already starting to appear. Her black hair clings to her cheeks, and the rain is turning her clothes sodden, but she looks happier than Sansa has ever seen her before. “You’re sure you’re fine with me doing this?”

Sansa nods, pats Mya on the shoulder reassuringly. “ _Go_ , Mya.”

“Okay, then,” she grins, and walks away from the castle, breaking into a run as the hill dips beneath her. Her legs are steady, and thankfully, she does not fall into any patches of mud as she runs. Sansa watches her for a moment more before looking up to the sky, seeing the rain pouring down. The rain is calming and gentle against her skin now that she is no longer sobbing in it. 

And for the first time since she went south, Sansa feels something wonderful. Something that she had believed she had forgotten how to feel forever.

She feels — _peace_. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1 MORE DAY LEFT HOLY SHIT!!! Thank you for all the support so far <3


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